Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The (5 page)
Read Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The Online
Authors: Krista Davis
Tags: #Winston; Sophie (Fictitious Character), #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Cooks, #Large Type Books, #Cookery, #Mystery, #Divorced Women, #Cooking, #Divorced Women - Crimes Against, #Weddings, #Crimes Against, #Sisters
“Hannah won’t come.”
“Don’t worry, she’s a sharp cookie.”
“Not when it comes to love.” Hannah had already married two losers, and, in my opinion, Craig would be number three.
A woman in the crowd tangled with a policeman, arguing incoherently, her arms waving as she tried to pass him. Salt-and-pepper hair escaped an untidy ponytail and gray wisps frizzled around her face. Her multiple bracelets jangled, adding to the confusion, and her low-slung jeans would have been better suited to a teenager and needed to be two sizes larger.
But something about the blue eye shadow and neon orange lipstick struck a chord with me.
FIVE
From “THE GOOD LIFE”:Dear Sophie,My Nana makes the most delicious cake in the world and has offered to bake my wedding cake as a gift. I don’t want to sound like a spoiled child, but while her cakes taste wonderful, they don’t look as professional as I’d like. Okay, they’re downright homely. Finances are tight for her, so she thinks a cake will be less expensive but much appreciated as a gift. I don’t want to hurt Nana’s feelings. Any suggestions?—Wedding Cake Blues in BloxomDear Wedding Cake,Tell Nana you’d rather have her attend as an honored guest. Look for a bakery willing to make custom cakes based on family recipes, and ask Nana to compile her favorite recipes as a gift so you can carry on cherished family traditions. In fifteen years, when you prepare a holiday meal, you won’t remember who gave you place settings of silver or china, but you’ll always think of Nana when you reach for her recipes.—Sophie
“Mrs. Smith?” I said.
“Sophie,” she begged, “tell them who I am.”
Nina and I made our way to her. I grasped Wanda Smith’s hand gently. “Natasha is fine. Relax, she’s okay.”
Nina turned to me, her face incredulous.
I couldn’t help grinning. Few mothers and daughters differed as much as Wanda Smith and Natasha. Wanda had scrabbled to provide for her daughter after Natasha’s father walked out on them. She’d waitressed at The Dixie Diner, the local watering hole in our hometown, for as long as I could remember. I gave Wanda a lot of credit for managing on her own. Natasha’s participation in beauty pageants must have cost a small fortune.
Nina held out her hand. “Mrs. Smith, I’m Nina Reid Norwood, your daughter’s neighbor a few houses down.”
Although she appeared distracted and bewildered, Wanda shook Nina’s hand.
“Come with us. Everything will be all right,” I assured her. “You can call Natasha from my house.”
Wanda followed us across the street, where my parents and niece were stepping out of a Buick.
Frowning, Dad demanded, “What’s going on?”
My ten-year-old niece, Jen, launched herself at me for a hug. “Can I pleeeese stay with you after the wedding?” She looked up at me with innocent blue eyes, her silky auburn hair gleaming as only a child’s can. Whispering, she pleaded, “They’re driving me nuts!”
My brother and his wife had left the week before on a sabbatical in the Sahara. Hannah had made a fuss about them missing the wedding, but our brother pointed out that he’d done the wedding thing for her twice already and neither of those marriages took.
Jen, an only child whose parents were certain they couldn’t have produced anything but gifted offspring, would be spending the summer in the country with my parents.
“We’ll try,” I whispered back.
Wanda threw herself at my father and leaned her head against his chest. “Paul, thank goodness you’re here.” Dad stiffened as though a snake had crawled up his leg. Mom rushed to his aid and delicately pried Wanda away, patting her reassuringly.
I coaxed them into the kitchen, except for Jen, whom I sent upstairs to see her wedding finery so she would be out of hearing range. Nina fetched a bottle of rum from the den while I put on the kettle and explained what had happened.
My mother cupped a hand over her mouth, her eyes enormous.
Dad, always practical, said, “Let me get this straight. Craig didn’t tell your sister he’d been married before. And now his ex-wife is dead.”
I poured boiling water over organic English Breakfast tea in a strainer on a Spode teapot and set it on the table. I added a sugar bowl, a creamer of milk, and coordinating mugs.
Mom, in her tidy aqua blouse, pearls, and white skirt watched me, motionless and apparently deep in thought. Even Mochie couldn’t distract her as he wound against her legs.
I set miniature fruit tarts, their glossy glaze shining over strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries, on a white serving platter, scattered chocolate-dipped strawberries among them, and set the platter on the kitchen table. I added forks, paper napkins in Hannah’s paler pink color, and more of the cheery pink dessert plates.
Nina brought the rum and poured some into Wanda’s mug. Wanda reached out a deeply tanned, gnarled hand with blood-red nails and a ring on each finger, including her thumb. She tapped Nina’s wrist so that more rum spilled into her mug. With a wink at Nina, she said, “I’ve had a shock, dear.”
Mom finally came around. “She was so upset about Craig marrying someone else that she killed herself.”
It was hard for me to imagine that anyone could love Craig that much. Then again, Hannah had fallen for him and appeared determined to stick by him.
Dad ran steady hands through his hair. “I suppose Hannah is Craig’s alibi?”
“No one needs an alibi, Dad.” At least I hoped no one would.
Nina glanced at me. “They had a spat and Craig took off in the car. Hannah was here in the kitchen with Sophie and me.”
“Do you think he was gone long enough to . . . to . . .” I didn’t want to come right out and say it.
Nina sat down and helped herself to a chocolate-covered strawberry. “I’m afraid so.”
“Now, girls.” Mom’s brow furrowed. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe Craig met his ex-wife and told her he loves Hannah and she was distraught.”
Wanda rose and wandered around the kitchen. “I feel something here. Was the dead woman in your kitchen? I’m getting vibes.”
Mom closed her eyes, and Dad looked at me with dread. I knew what they were thinking. Mars’s Aunt Faye had left us the house, and his mother was convinced that she could converse with Faye’s spirit in the kitchen. None of the rest of us had ever heard Faye. We’d chosen to keep Mars’s mother’s quirk a secret from Natasha, so I wasn’t about to spill the beans to her mother.
Wanda peered at the photograph of Aunt Faye that hung on the stone wall surrounding the fireplace. “So this is the house my Natasha wanted so much. There are definitely spirits here.”
The picture of Aunt Faye swung to a slant, and Wanda stepped back in alarm. “Did you see that?”
Dad coughed. “It’s a draft.”
“No, I feel it.” She shifted her shoulders uneasily and looked out the window. “I can’t see Natasha’s house from here. She must be devastated. You know how delicate she is.”
I knew what a drama queen her daughter was.
But my mother, who adored Natasha, said, “Poor Natasha. How odd that the woman would have chosen her yard.”
Handing Wanda the phone, I suggested she let Natasha know she’d arrived.
Mom blurted, “We’ll have to call off the wedding.”
“You can’t do that when Natasha put so much effort into the wedding cake,” protested Wanda.
Everyone seemed to be on different tracks of thought. A stranger had died and touched all of our lives. We should have been worried about her and why she’d chosen to take her life, but we couldn’t help thinking about how her death impacted us individually.
A face with hair so blond it verged on white peered through the window in the kitchen door. Humphrey—painfully slender, almost delicate, and shy as a sparrow. Pale Humphrey had grown up with Natasha and me. Although I’d been oblivious, he claimed he’d had a crush on me during our school years which had somehow lasted through the decades. I’d managed to put him off by telling him I was involved with Wolf. It was a major exaggeration, but kinder than telling him I found him as exciting as elementary school paste. But that hadn’t stopped him from hanging around in the hope I would change my mind.
Reluctantly, I opened the door. After a polite exchange with my parents and Wanda about his mother and her health, which was fine, thank you, he pulled me aside and whispered, “I need to speak with you privately.”
I balked.
“Sophie,” he insisted, “this is of vital importance.”
Against my better judgment I let him tug me outside. We walked around to the grill, and I took the opportunity to see how my meat was progressing.
“I was just picking up a body . . .”
Goose bumps crawled along my arms at the thought. All in a day’s work for Humphrey, since he was a local mortician.
“. . . and everyone was talking about Craig’s ex-wife. I thought I’d heard wrong. I couldn’t believe that something so terrible could happen to Hannah right before her wedding.”
I concentrated on the meat, which was coming along nicely. The musky aroma of mesquite still wafted in the air above the grill.
“Hannah’s in big trouble, Sophie.”
I finally bothered to look at him.
“Craig’s ex-wife didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.”
SIX
From
“Ask Natasha”
:Dear Natasha,I booked the most gorgeous place for my wedding, but they have a strict maximum on the number of guests. I have to whittle down the guest list, but I know some people won’t be able to come. Do I act like an airline and send more invitations than we have seats and hope some people won’t make it?—Overbooking in OrangeDear Overbooking,You don’t want empty seats on your fabulous day. I always create an A list and a B list. Send invitations to the A list first. As regrets arrive, move to the B list and send those invitations. That way, you never have to go over your maximum, but you’ll be sure to have a full house.—Natasha
My hand slipped and hit the edge of the hot grill. I jumped back and blew on the red welt that sprang up on the back of my finger.
“That can’t be. She kicked over the table.”
Humphrey took a deep breath. “The marks on her neck run from front to back, like someone strangled her from behind. If she’d died from hanging herself, the marks would run sort of upward.”
I steadied myself by holding on to a nearby chair. “Somebody killed her and then strung her up? How horrible. Why would anyone do that?” Even though I didn’t know Emily Beacham, I felt like someone had kicked the strength out of my legs. She seemed nice. Why would anyone kill her so brutally? I collapsed into the chair as the horrific implications became clear.
Craig was the only one of us who knew Emily. We hadn’t even known of his previous marriage until shortly before her death. What a lucky break Hannah hadn’t married him. If he’d killed his first wife, he might not hesitate to murder the second. “You have to tell Hannah as soon as she comes home.”
In spite of the warm June weather, I felt chills. The horror of Emily’s murder might have saved Hannah. I took Humphrey’s milky-white hand and raced for the kitchen door. I’d promised not to butt in. I’d been determined not to interfere. But this was different. I had to save Hannah from Craig.
I towed Humphrey back into the kitchen. Wanda and Nina had left, and Mom and Dad were discussing whether to call off the wedding. It would be best if they heard the bad news from Humphrey, whom they would see as a more neutral source of information. At my prodding, he shared what he’d learned.
“Dear Lord!” Dad fell into a chair.
Mom rested a calming hand on his shoulder. “He’s not going to hurt Hannah.”
Dad stared at her in astonishment. “He managed to kill his ex-wife in broad daylight, Inga!”
Always one to think the best of people, Mom said, “That can’t be. Craig . . .” She faltered and fell silent.
But Dad wasn’t through. “I knew there was something wrong with that boy. Why can’t Hannah ever find a nice man?”
Mom persisted, her face taut. “Let’s not be hasty. Even if she was murdered, that doesn’t mean Craig killed her.” She brushed an imaginary errant hair out of her face and said, “The three of us and Humphrey will keep our ears to the ground tonight. Wolf will be here, thank goodness, and we’ll tell him anything we learn. And now I believe I’ll make sandwiches. Panini, Humphrey?”
I’d only recently come to realize what snoops my parents were. They had no qualms about eavesdropping. I figured I came to it naturally with snooping genes on both sides of the family.
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